Velvet Verbosity

Two, no THREE posts in one day. Internet, don’t be overwhelmed. Surely I can’t keep up at this pace. I just wanted to get caught up and after 300 hours twenty minutes moderating spam comments for after-school porn, viagra, and cialis, I felt the sudden need to do something that would restore my faith that the internet is not populated solely by lonely, desperate white guys that ain’t got no “fly”. What better way than to get cracking on the Pillar post?

In preparation for my new plan to start choosing my favorites to post in full, I’m going to start off this post with my favorite newcomer of the week. Maybe I’m biased because he’s a Ninja, and everyone knows ninjas are cool. Maybe it’s because he has the coolest header on his 100 Word Challenge. Or maybe it’s because he’s self-proclaimed “sleep-deprived”, and while I no longer have small children, I have teenagers and dude? that’s worse. I’m just sayin. They NEVER sleep. Anyway, welcome to Sleep Deprivation Ninja and his giddily creative endeavor.

Shooting from column to row, clad in the absence of light, I leap and crawl through the fortress of the Infinite. The reason is a mystery even to me. But I must continue down the never ending corridor of pillars, further into the darkness. The only indication of progress is the decaying light from whence I came. Soon, every direction looks the same and soon, like the light vanishing behind the vast colonnade, my mind becomes dark and uncertain. Now, in a moment of vertigo, I know my purpose. Squatting in utter darkness, lacking direction, I meditate in peace.

Oh man, you see? This is why I keep this blog and slog through comment spam. Thanks Sassy Mama Bear. I hope this is a story about your man and not just a fairy tale.

Pillars of the Heart
He stood proudly
Waiting for her
A long aisle
Keeping them apart.

How he loved her
How beautiful she was
How wonderful he felt
Knowing she would be his.

The music started, his heart fluttered
A tear glistened on her cheek
As a smile touched her lips
She stepped closer.

She looked down the aisle
Grasping her father’s hand
He had always been her support
Soon that would change.

The man waiting for her
Looking so strong
Had won her heart
Was now to take her hand.

He would be the
Hero of her heart
The rock beneath her,
Forevermore.

~ Penelope Anne Bartotto
July 25, 2008

Another recent return from a camp with hundreds of kids. Susan, ain’t it just grand? And hey, you’d probably be surprised to know that at a Buddhist family camp, we raise flags and do drill too. Our drill song? “I don’t know but it’s been said, setting sun is made-o-lead. I don’t know it’s been told, Shambhala sun is made-o-gold. Sound off, Ki ki so so, Ki Ki…SO SO.” The kids love it.

Sixteen flagpoles stand outside the dining hall in two rows: three and thirteen. Five hundred campers gather by the thirteen, hustling to get there first and earn the honors. The other three, they’re for the staff. Full uniform. Attention, marching, parade rest. Ceremony. You know the drill.

Those flagpoles aren’t merely for flags. They’re the first ceremony for many of the Scouts, and the gathering spot used by all. While not in the center of camp, they are its centerpiece, the pillar from which all else spins out. Find those flagpoles, and you have found your way back to camp.

Speaking of family….thanks Lceel. You’re a gem.

We have built this thing over many years. It started small. And slowly things were added to it, building it up and making it stronger and tougher. Things we enjoyed together. First dates and long walks and babies and holding hands and total devotion. The Big Red Boat and New Smyrna and Jamaica and England. Together. And things we have survived. A stillborn baby and accidents and heart problems and lost jobs and lost friends. All of these things, and more, go into what we have built. This tower of strength, the pillar this family is built on, this ‘us’.

Lessa, I don’t know what it is, but I can’t C&P from your site. The following has been transferred by hand, so if you find a mistake, take it up with management. Nice piece.

Her hand slid over marble, exploring with sensitive fingertips. There had to be something, some minute imperfection that even sight - had she any - would miss. It was there, some roughness from the rub of the chain, some tiny crack in the perfection of the pillar - she would find it.

There. There it is. So small that no one would ever notice, as those with sight are often the first to pass over such imperfections, and miss them completely. It is there she will concentrate, and that tiny little crack will lead to freedom.

She is patient.

She will prevail.

It’s amazing the power some of you pack into 100 words. Whew Angelgal.

He hurried home after an intense village meeting. Pulling his collar up against the cold, he saw the shivering old lady lying in her spot on the corner. He thought back to the talk at the men’s retreat about getting back more than you imagined when you give. He stuck his hand in his pocket and dropped the coins he found in her cup. When she heard the jingle, she opened her eyes.

“How far the great do fall,” she whispered, her eyes glistening.

He fell to his knees, placed a hand on her shoulder, and wept with her.

“Mother.”

Ha! Brilliant Wandering Author. (By the way, there are good reasons to actually click through to the original posts as there are often anecdotes, explanations, and other added fare that I don’t include here.)

The Pillar

Gawen sweated and struggled, setting each segment in place, but finally the pillar stood, alone in barren sand. By day he lived in the hidden chamber of a cave nearby. The pillar served as he’d planned, a spot travelers could find again. Some hoped to avoid tax collectors, others didn’t like bringing all their cash into the city. By night, Gawen crept out to dig it up. In three years he had enough to buy Morgan’s freedom, pay their passage to Albion, and secure their future.

The archaeologist scratched his head. “Who put this here, and why?” He never learned.

I know all too well the “Bridezillas” Melissa speaks of here. My mother is a florist, and my brother a wedding photographer. I hear the stories. I’m just wondering why I never got a Divorce Cake?

“Wasn’t she a picky one? She was a Bridezilla if there ever was one.”

“Amen to that. ‘I don’t want to see a pillar out of place on the cake’ Good grief.”

“What is it lately with these brides? So many of them today spend more time planning the wedding than the marriage.”

“I’ll bet you that she doesn’t put half as much effort into the marriage as she has for the wedding. We’ll be seein’ her here for one of those ‘Divorce Cakes’ in three years.”

“You’ll have no takers on that one, Marie. I don’t take sucker bets.”

In a sudden turn, JM at Fiction Scribe veers away from Mr. Frank Talbert and offers us, instead, a fictional glimpse into history. (P.S. thanks for trying to help me out with Mr. Linky JM.)

Athena reached up and caressed the marble pillars, beautiful, cold, silent witnesses to a time long past. They had stood so proud and tall then, when they represented the beauty of current design instead of remnants of history. But even then they had been cold. Watching their fellow pillars fall under the violence and malice of those who could never truly understand the world.

With sigh and a final gentle caress, she left them – resisting the urge for a more intimate gesture.

But alas, her brothers and sisters were waiting for her. More relics, pillars, of an age long gone.

Aww Sandy, great post on Pillar. I think it’s why many blog. Oh, and she apologized for posting late. (blink blink) Does she not know who she’s dealing with here?

A domain. Just one minuscule place in the vast World Wide Web. Nothing fancy, mainly words and photographs, all weaving an intricate tapestry modeling my thoughts. Some sections are delicate, too fragile to fully unfold. Some bound beautifully, creating vivid, brilliant memories. Others tangled, a mess, and loyal friends often gather to offer words of support. Some days the process feels too weighty to continue. But mostly it has become a stress ball rolling out tension, an indiscriminant ear always listening, a blank canvas awaiting strokes of creativity. This blog is one vital pillar sustaining the heaviness of my sanity.

Another exceptional piece from the Night Blogger. Get out! You are so not a high school student. At least not in this universe. Nope, too smart.

Soft, slow, icy as snow, it falls to the ground like a kiss.

Green, vibrant, lush, it springs from the earth with defiance.

Sparkling, clear, undulating, it whispers so loudly in silence.

Grey, gloomy, morose, it cradles the Earth in a humid embrace.

Grand, stately, towering above, it rules with a splinter and leaf.

Shaken, fallen, brown, it lies on cold concrete and dies.

Tall, marble, solid, this pillar, a symbol of eternity’s end.

Orange, golden, yellow like stars, it rains a million puddles of light.

 

Quiet, so quiet, alone in the world, it sits with a shiver and weeps.

 

My newly faithful Ash…you have to appreciate this guy’s writing and open heart.

Like tendrils of mist, erasing, forgiving, her voice curled around the pillars of the courtyard and filled the spaces in between. It was careful and gentle, neither tentative nor demanding. He could feel it seeping into the chinks in his defenses, loosening stones and threatening to topple his carefully built walls. That frightened him more than anything. He wasn’t sure he was ready for a love that threatened his defenses.

“SHUT UP!”

But she continued unfazed, unabated, as if to say, “I love you too much to give up.” He sank to his knees, weeping for he knew not what.

Mr. Lady is one smart, funny dudette who I am proud to include in my list of participants. When she wants to turn her hand from snark to serious writing, she does so seemingly effortlessly.

Torn from her home, forced to flee, she gathers her strength and runs forward towards her future. She presses on through the dark night, blind, led only by faith in what is possible. She is told to forget, to forgive, to move on. Yet, the harder she runs forward, the more she finds that she must stop and look behind her for a moment. The only way she can see where she’s going is to remember where she came from.

The only way we go forward is to, on occasion, look back. And no one’s turned to salt just yet.

Oh man, I think too many wives know too many husbands sorta just like this one. (Not I, Rodius, his CHARACTER!) Damn internet.

He’s a stand-up guy, a pillar of his community. He’s a professional. He always replaces the divots at business meetings. He shakes hands with his pastor Sunday mornings. He wears pressed polos and khakis to the grocery store Sunday afternoons. He wears brightly colored lycra jerseys when he rides his bike. He prefers ones with Italian words silk-screened. He tells people how they wick away moisture. But sometimes, just sometimes, in the dead of the night, in the quiet glow of a flat-screen monitor, he burns with desire and shame, watching strange, hungry, male tongues lick strange, nyloned, female toes.

Don’t forget, the next challenge is

Fresh

Post ‘em here.

With love,